Ah, suicide! The Poor Man's way to go. Or even worse, not to go! (Gets the losers out of the gene pool).
But the stats are somewhat fascinating: from an article in the New Yorker, " . . . many suicide methods are ineffective (poison is fatal only fifteen per cent of the time, drug overdose twelve per cent, and wrist cutting a mere five per cent) and therefore recommends bridges, noting that “jumps from higher than . . . 250 feet over water are almost always fatal.”
Hence, the Golden Gate bridge.
I've always thought that if I wanted to commit suicide, I'd become a race car driver, volunteer for Humvee duty in Fallujah or become a mine-clearer in Cambodia. Doesn't that sound like more fun than jumping off a bridge? At least I'd be doing the gene pool a service.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Words To The Wise
Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches, once halved, one half refrigerated, even with Emmenthal and country bread, even made by master sandwich-maker Brigitte,
Are
Not
Reheatable.
Especially at 4:30 a.m.
However, a scotch and ginger ale can always be dehydrated. By my tummy.
Are
Not
Reheatable.
Especially at 4:30 a.m.
However, a scotch and ginger ale can always be dehydrated. By my tummy.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Montreal Maniacs
No, that's not the name of a hockey team. It's the name of Montreal drivers. I've been in a lot of cities in my life, but Montreal takes the cake as the city containing the worst drivers in the world.
Sure, Calcutta was bad, but what do you do when you have no traffic rules to begin with? Mayhem, but civilized mayhem. Kinshasa, Congo -- same thing. Never a single incident except boarding a crowded bus on a hot day and a lack of deodorant.
Dakar, Africa -- despite one harrowing ride with a drunken French guy, nothing. Nope. Not even close.
Osaka, Japan (and these are all places I lived in, wasn't a visitor to) -- whoa, make a wrong lane change and the police would be on you like stink on shit.
Paris: motorcycle chaos, pedestrians everywhere, but again, not a single incident (though I swore up and down that there would be about 100 motorcycle-related deaths per day by observing their driving).
But Montreal?
Just how DO these people get their licenses? Out of a Rice Crispies box, or as a special offer with Chicken McNuggets?
Because they sure didn't earn them. It is extremely hazardous to drive on the streets of Montreal. Today we almost died. Brigitte and I were just minding our business, driving down a major thoroughfare in the right direction at the right speed, when out of nowhere, a minivan takes an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and almost slams right into Brigitte's door. If she hadn't had the quickness to swerve to avoid him, she no doubt would have been badly injured and the car would have been a total loss.
Then the guy has the gall to yell at us! Then he burns the red light to get away. We were badly shaken.
This is typical in a city where one rarely sees a cop car, let alone anyone bothering to check for bad drivers. They're too busy handing out parking tickets.
Last year, I was driving with someone down Cote-des-Neiges Road in broad summer daylight when some woman just pulled out from her parking space RIGHT IN FRONT OF US . . . again, some guardian angel and my friend's amazingly fast evasive actions prevented a hideous, life-threatening crash (this time on my side).
I keep telling Brigitte "Drive safely," each time she goes out, and she's a good driver, but as I keep reminding her, it's the other guy who's going to get you.
After all, there are a million Crackerjack boxes sold per day.
Sure, Calcutta was bad, but what do you do when you have no traffic rules to begin with? Mayhem, but civilized mayhem. Kinshasa, Congo -- same thing. Never a single incident except boarding a crowded bus on a hot day and a lack of deodorant.
Dakar, Africa -- despite one harrowing ride with a drunken French guy, nothing. Nope. Not even close.
Osaka, Japan (and these are all places I lived in, wasn't a visitor to) -- whoa, make a wrong lane change and the police would be on you like stink on shit.
Paris: motorcycle chaos, pedestrians everywhere, but again, not a single incident (though I swore up and down that there would be about 100 motorcycle-related deaths per day by observing their driving).
But Montreal?
Just how DO these people get their licenses? Out of a Rice Crispies box, or as a special offer with Chicken McNuggets?
Because they sure didn't earn them. It is extremely hazardous to drive on the streets of Montreal. Today we almost died. Brigitte and I were just minding our business, driving down a major thoroughfare in the right direction at the right speed, when out of nowhere, a minivan takes an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and almost slams right into Brigitte's door. If she hadn't had the quickness to swerve to avoid him, she no doubt would have been badly injured and the car would have been a total loss.
Then the guy has the gall to yell at us! Then he burns the red light to get away. We were badly shaken.
This is typical in a city where one rarely sees a cop car, let alone anyone bothering to check for bad drivers. They're too busy handing out parking tickets.
Last year, I was driving with someone down Cote-des-Neiges Road in broad summer daylight when some woman just pulled out from her parking space RIGHT IN FRONT OF US . . . again, some guardian angel and my friend's amazingly fast evasive actions prevented a hideous, life-threatening crash (this time on my side).
I keep telling Brigitte "Drive safely," each time she goes out, and she's a good driver, but as I keep reminding her, it's the other guy who's going to get you.
After all, there are a million Crackerjack boxes sold per day.
Nothingness
Nothingness. The absence of somethingness. Black, the absence of light. Why is this so difficult to understand?
Before we were born, there was nothingness. Remember that? In fact, pretty much until around age 5, there is nothingness, because you can't remember it. Oh sure, you might have a vague memory of an incident or two, as I do, but it literally has a term: Infant amnesia.
But it doesn't really matter. The concept of not being here, no longer being alive, is such a puzzling thing. It's also inconceivable. To know that a person is gone forever is impossible to me.
But to think that one day _I_ will be gone is even more inconceivable.
Will you come put flowers on my grave?
No, amend that. Sprinkle some good scotch on my grave. Regularly.
Before we were born, there was nothingness. Remember that? In fact, pretty much until around age 5, there is nothingness, because you can't remember it. Oh sure, you might have a vague memory of an incident or two, as I do, but it literally has a term: Infant amnesia.
But it doesn't really matter. The concept of not being here, no longer being alive, is such a puzzling thing. It's also inconceivable. To know that a person is gone forever is impossible to me.
But to think that one day _I_ will be gone is even more inconceivable.
Will you come put flowers on my grave?
No, amend that. Sprinkle some good scotch on my grave. Regularly.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I Did It Again
On a search for midnight food, which is a frequent one, I put down my guard and did it yet again. Sure, we had steak and vegetables last night, but that is not midnight food. I just don't feel like frying bacon, lovingly assembling some country bread with aged cheddar, slicing a red onion and a tomato, and making an amazing BLT either.
Are you fucking kidding? It's now 4:21 a.m. -- my witching hour. I'm going to spend half an hour making a sandwich? Christ, this scotch and ginger ale are good enough.
But I still did it again. I made Metro-brand "Carbonara" out of a package. I decided to spice it up with some grated Emmenthal and even some day-glo Kraft Dinner powder.
I berate myself every time I do this. I wish I could be a penitent and somehow give myself fifty lashings, razor-blade my scalp or spend twenty years in silence in a monastery.
It was categorically the worst midnight meal I've ever had. You know when you try to boil pasta, you know that you've got the timing right, but somehow it still becomes pasty on the outside, but crunchy on the inside? Well, add that to a sodium-toxic powdered . . . something . . . (how do these people come up with these noxious products? Years of research?)
God, you couldn't have dressed it up with Beluga Prime and a little Perrier-Jouet . . . it would be the equivalent of spraying perfume on a turd.
Why do I do this? Can you tell me? Why?
Are you fucking kidding? It's now 4:21 a.m. -- my witching hour. I'm going to spend half an hour making a sandwich? Christ, this scotch and ginger ale are good enough.
But I still did it again. I made Metro-brand "Carbonara" out of a package. I decided to spice it up with some grated Emmenthal and even some day-glo Kraft Dinner powder.
I berate myself every time I do this. I wish I could be a penitent and somehow give myself fifty lashings, razor-blade my scalp or spend twenty years in silence in a monastery.
It was categorically the worst midnight meal I've ever had. You know when you try to boil pasta, you know that you've got the timing right, but somehow it still becomes pasty on the outside, but crunchy on the inside? Well, add that to a sodium-toxic powdered . . . something . . . (how do these people come up with these noxious products? Years of research?)
God, you couldn't have dressed it up with Beluga Prime and a little Perrier-Jouet . . . it would be the equivalent of spraying perfume on a turd.
Why do I do this? Can you tell me? Why?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Bison Cannelloni
Was at Jean-Talon market a while back, I think at Capitol and spotted some frozen bison cannelloni. I don't know. The whole concept of bison is that it's lean and tasty.
But Brigitte wasn't too thrilled. Me, I don't have a love affair with lamb, either. I'm a pork and beef guy.
But I bought it anyway, and made it last night. I made a tomato-red-pepper sauce with mushrooms, covered it with some 5-year-old cheddar, a little Emmenthal and some Reggiano, and baked it nicely, but it was a failure.
The BISON was the failure. It was grainy, slightly gamy, and just tasted bland and unpalatable.
I guess it's like oysters. You WANT to like them because everyone else does, but once is truly enough.
There will be no more bison dying for my sake.
But Brigitte wasn't too thrilled. Me, I don't have a love affair with lamb, either. I'm a pork and beef guy.
But I bought it anyway, and made it last night. I made a tomato-red-pepper sauce with mushrooms, covered it with some 5-year-old cheddar, a little Emmenthal and some Reggiano, and baked it nicely, but it was a failure.
The BISON was the failure. It was grainy, slightly gamy, and just tasted bland and unpalatable.
I guess it's like oysters. You WANT to like them because everyone else does, but once is truly enough.
There will be no more bison dying for my sake.
Hebrew
. . . is such an interesting language -- quite like nothing I've ever heard. I've always been interested in foreign languages, so this is a very interesting challenge.
I learned Japanese. Got that down pat. With a Japanese person who also speaks English, it's usually a give-and-take, a mishmash. Usually they want to use their English, which is understandable, but also regrettable. And for sure, I can't hold, say, a political or even remotely complicated conversation, but as far as day-to-day stuff -- "Yes, I'd like to reserve a room. Can I use my credit card? Yes, I'd like these dates blah blah blah and I'd like a non-smoking room" -- hey, it's easy-breezy-cheesy-squeezy.
But when I hear Brigitte talk -- to someone who speaks Hebrew -- it's incredible. I listen in,trying to figure out what the conversation is all about. It's like listening to Mongolian. I have absolutely not a clue what most of the words are all about. There's no "European" clue, unlike Spanish, Portuguese or German, which I can, say, KIND OF get a sense of.
But in any language, humans seem to say the same old things . . . "What? Yes, I know . . . no, I don't think so . . . yes, I'm fine . . . what?" so that's what I'm gleaning from listening to Brigitte, who is completely, and I mean completely trilingual. She switches effortlessly between Hebrew, English and French, frequently peppering her speech with either English or French, so that's when I have a clue of what she's saying.
Well, there's a project. I'm trilingual but now I want to be quadrilingual. Wish me luck.
I learned Japanese. Got that down pat. With a Japanese person who also speaks English, it's usually a give-and-take, a mishmash. Usually they want to use their English, which is understandable, but also regrettable. And for sure, I can't hold, say, a political or even remotely complicated conversation, but as far as day-to-day stuff -- "Yes, I'd like to reserve a room. Can I use my credit card? Yes, I'd like these dates blah blah blah and I'd like a non-smoking room" -- hey, it's easy-breezy-cheesy-squeezy.
But when I hear Brigitte talk -- to someone who speaks Hebrew -- it's incredible. I listen in,trying to figure out what the conversation is all about. It's like listening to Mongolian. I have absolutely not a clue what most of the words are all about. There's no "European" clue, unlike Spanish, Portuguese or German, which I can, say, KIND OF get a sense of.
But in any language, humans seem to say the same old things . . . "What? Yes, I know . . . no, I don't think so . . . yes, I'm fine . . . what?" so that's what I'm gleaning from listening to Brigitte, who is completely, and I mean completely trilingual. She switches effortlessly between Hebrew, English and French, frequently peppering her speech with either English or French, so that's when I have a clue of what she's saying.
Well, there's a project. I'm trilingual but now I want to be quadrilingual. Wish me luck.
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